Our past will define us.
Emery Kidd is one of two historians for her community. As a Chronicler, she is aware of the minute details of a society dramatically changed over the course of the two hundred years since life regression began. She also knows why the population of the planet has dwindled in that time and how history tends to repeat itself.
Regenerating is a no-brainer, an idyllic way of life (or so it has long been assumed). But very soon, the regens will come face-to-face with their true inheritance. The question is how the consequences of this legacy will be received. Once again, the human race has become complacent, and that smugness could lead to their extinction.
Meanwhile, although she isn’t at first aware, Emery is much more than a data-pushing historian, she is the daughter of the most famous of regeneratives to have ever lived. Once she accepts her own heritage, this could mean nothing and everything for her and her community. She may find she holds power to turn the diminishing path of civilization around, saving thousands of lives, including her own.
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Teaser from Chapter 1
The warmth of the sunlight hovers in the air. Abstractly, I look up at the pale blue patches of sky in between the scattered cottony clouds that have rolled in. As an involuntary shiver travels along my arms, I suddenly become aware of the coolness within the borders of the park.
Although my jacket is buttoned all the way to my neck, I pull at the woolen sides and wrap my arms around my waist. My fingers tingle. Looking down at reddened tips of the fleshy side and a bluish tinge to my nails on the other, I know my nose and cheeks are bound to be rosy, as well. It’s a wonder I didn’t feel the bite until now. A brisk walk will put some distance between this place and me. I’ve shed a fair amount of baggage these past few months, but lately, there are new meditations to store in an invisible backpack—a burden I’ve been unknowingly carrying upon my shoulders for years.
Snippet from Chapter 2
“I don’t know what’s wrong, but you’ve been getting on my case over the smallest things. Yesterday I left a cup in the sink after you’d done the dishes. Whoopee,” I say unenthusiastically twirling a finger in the air and sliding a stool from under the kitchen counter with my foot.
Her glare becomes more pointed. As she looks up at me, the downward crease of her mouth deepens. She simmers, expectant perhaps of both a psychic ability I do not possess and my remorse, once that specially-powered epiphany has struck.
“So, now if the sink is empty I’m supposed to do every dish right after I use it? What are we trying to achieve—our independence from the sink? ‘Cause you look about ready to wage war,” I say, smirking. She tilts her head to the side; annoyed I’m not taking her anger seriously. I might if I knew what this was about. Then again, if this was another frivolous tantrum, I might not. I stand with my arms crossed in front of me in an unrelenting posture.